


Jeeves and the Delicate Negotiation

by cuddles



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Bargaining, Friendship, Gen, Jeeves is always the smartest person in the room, Love Letters, Missing Scene, Negotiations, Reconciliation, Romantic Friendship, but he can also be a dumbass, heliotrope pyjamas, love is love regardless of social status, obnoxious trombone playing, swallowing one's pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddles/pseuds/cuddles
Summary: A retelling of S2E4 "Jeeves in the Country" (based on Thank You, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, dramatized by Clive Exton) from Jeeves' point of view.Originally posted on LiveJournal, now to be released in eight parts.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves & Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines, especially in the opening scene, are straight from the episode. Some bits (such as the butter prank) are straight from Wodehouse.

Among the arts a gentleman's gentleman must possess is the art of striking a bargain. The successful bargainer shows restraint and tact. He resists the temptation to make his best offer outright--or to make any offer outright. It is often preferable for the other party to be unaware that a bargain is being struck at all. A proud gentleman does not like to feel he is being steered toward aims not his own, and pride is a tyrant that the shrewd negotiator handles, if at all, only with the tenderest flattery. Sentiments deeper than mere pride call for more tenderness still.  
  
I have made my negotiation skills a cornerstone of my career. Yet I too have had my share of failures. The most painful was the occasion on which I gave notice to my employer, Mr. Bertram Wooster.  
  
At the time, Mr. Wooster had been attempting to learn the trombone for a solid week. It seemed like longer. When at last the landlord appeared at our door, I felt a weight lift from my heart. Mr. Wooster, however, was indignant.  
  
"The ultimatum is, either I chuck playing it or leave! Very well, then," Mr. Wooster declared, "I shall leave them without a pang."  
  
"You are proposing to move, sir?"  
  
"It is my intention to retire to the depths of the country for the summer. There in some old-world, sequestered nook, I shall find a cottage and resume my studies."  
  
Here I misstepped. As I say, one must never lay down one's cards at the outset. The direct approach is particularly inadvisable in the late morning, when a young gentleman's spirits and resistance are high. But a year with Mr. Wooster had softened my reserve, and a week with the trombone had exhausted my patience.  
  
I coughed. "In that case, sir, I fear I must give my notice."  
  
I should have read my folly in Mr. Wooster's bewildered gaze.  
  
It is odd. Mr. Wooster is accustomed to being cast aside by his friends. Mrs. Gregson, his aunt, always greets him with a sigh of disappointment. His other aunt, Mrs. Travers, has been known to hurl light novels at him as a farewell. Mr. Wooster seems to take such rebuffs as a matter of course, but somehow my departure took him by surprise.  
  
"Jeeves!" His voice was hushed to a degree that a proud man might have found gratifying. "Did I hear you correctly?"  
  
"Yes, sir." And I put my objection as tactfully as possible.  
  
"You are resolved to leave if I continue to play?" His voice was (if my much-abused ears were to be trusted) nearly an octave above his usual baritone.  
  
My heart sank. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Well, then." Mr. Wooster appeared to be screwing his courage to the sticking place. His eyes flitted between my face and tie. " _Leave_ , dash it!"  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
But for the fleeting impression that a gnat had flown into my eye, I maintained my professional demeanor. I do recall Mr. Wooster staring at me in a carp-like fashion as I left the room, but such is often the way with Mr. Wooster.  
  
I consoled myself with the thought that I should surely return to his employ one day. At summer's end, when trombone and country solitude had lost their bloom, some small gesture on my part might suffice to make amends; indeed, perhaps no gesture should be necessary.  
  
At present, however, I had need of a new position. I had hardly begun a mental list of candidates when there appeared on Mr. Wooster's doorstep his friend Lord Chuffnell.  
  
I might not have chosen his lordship for my first application. True, he was gracious, loyal, and possessed of sober sartorial judgment, but he was also strong-tempered and rumoured to be in financial straits. Moreover, he had a distinct air of marriageability. It chilled the blood.  
  
"Is it true you handed Bertie the mitten, Jeeves?" his lordship asked. "Over that trombone of his?"  
  
"I have recently tendered my resignation, my lord."  
  
"Well, well, well. Hard to believe he's daft enough to let you get away. A good man is hard to find these days, Jeeves. I should think you're worth your weight in gold!"  
  
"Your lordship is too kind."  
  
"Got plans, then, have you?"  
  
"Not at present."  
  
"I wonder if I could persuade you to come work for me?" And he named a monthly wage rather smaller than that to which I was accustomed.  
  
I cleared my throat. A sudden hope had leapt in my breast. "Pardon me, my lord, but I was under the impression that Mr. Wooster hoped to take a country cottage near your lordship's ancestral home?"  
  
"Oh, yes! I've promised him his pick. I imagine he'll take the largest, not a mile down the road. It shall be some months before the sale of the Hall is final, and till then Bertie will probably come round for visits quite often. You know how it is in the country. One sees a good deal of one's neighbours!"  
  
"Indeed, my lord?" I assumed a mien of pained regret.  
  
"Er. Something wrong, Jeeves?"  
  
"I would not like to say, my lord."  
  
"Ah. Well. Well, I suppose you and Bertie...? Well."  
  
"You surmise correctly, my lord, that my parting with Mr. Wooster is not altogether amicable. No doubt he is attempting to make light of our rift." Discretion alone, I implied, kept me from specifying that Mr. Wooster kept handkerchiefs embroidered with scarlet horseshoes and picked his teeth with a letter knife.  
  
I could see from Lord Chuffnell's embarrassment that just such visions were passing through his mind. "Ah, well, I say."  
  
"Forgive me, my lord, if I speak too freely. Suffice it to say that, though I should otherwise be very happy to enter your lordship's service, only a considerable incentive could persuade me--"  
  
His lordship took my meaning and doubled his offer. One does like to keep one's skills honed at all times, particularly after a deeply felt loss.


	2. Chapter 2

As it happened, my negotiating skills were the very reason Lord Chuffnell was so eager to engage me. He hoped to sell his ancestral home to Mr. J. Washburn Stoker, a wealthy American with whom Mr. Wooster and I had been acquainted in New York.

"I'm no good at it, Jeeves," Lord Chuffnell confessed in private. "My nerves give out, I break into a cold sweat, and I'll end up asking too much--or not enough--or at the wrong time."

"A common affliction, my lord."

"And to make matters worse, she will be there!"

"You refer to Mr. Stoker's daughter, my lord?"

"Yes, by Jove!--Pauline!" He groaned aloud.

I remembered Miss Stoker well. An exceedingly attractive young lady, though, like many Americans, too plainspoken and spirited for a quiet-living man. Mr. Wooster's ill-advised infatuation with her, during our stay in New York, had lasted two weeks.

His persistence at the time was remarkable. Every candlelit dinner he attempted met with cancelled reservations or an obtrusive waiter. Every romantic stroll was impeded by dogs inexplicably attracted to his trouser cuffs. At last, in a crowded, unsanitary diner, he succeeded in contracting a betrothal and a bad head cold.

It was Mr. Stoker who intervened. Some chance remarks of mine led him to believe that Mr. Wooster's past mistresses continued to haunt him; that he was notorious in the seamier speakeasies under the nom de guerre "Ephraim Gadsby"; and that, in private, he picked his teeth with an ivory letter knife. The engagement was put to an end.

All this was for the best, I felt. Mr. Wooster, having recovered from both his afflictions, heartily agreed.

Unlike Mr. Wooster, Lord Chuffnell was Miss Stoker's equal in energy and temper. Her maternal instinct would be a balm to the baron's touchy pride. The match was a fine one.

"You are fond of the young lady, my lord?"

"Fond of her! Why, one smile from her and I'll forget my own name, let alone the price I want for the Hall! But even if I get Stoker alone, I simply don't know how to go about it."

"Most disturbing, my lord. With your permission, I will offer your lordship some instruction in this matter."

It was obviously what he had been hoping to hear all along. "Would you really, Jeeves?"

"Gladly, my lord." And with the aid of a deck of cards borrowed from the maid, I endeavoured to impart a few principles of negotiation. His lordship proved an apt pupil.

On the day of the Stokers' visit, however, his nerves were frayed.

"Is my tie straight, Jeeves?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Matches the jacket, you think?"

"The colours are most harmonious, my lord."

"Jeeves, I've forgotten what you said was the very essence of negotiation. Or did you say the very element? Is there a difference?"

"If you will pardon my saying so, my lord, a calm state of mind is a greater asset than any stratagem."

"Calm! Ha!"

"Perhaps the moral support of a friend would have a soothing influence, my lord. If you like, I will telephone Mr. Hatcher and ask him to join us." I referred to a young village gentleman who had played croquet at the Hall the day previous.

His lordship's face lit up, then grew guarded. "I'd rather have a stiff drink."

"A small brandy and soda would be prudent, my lord." I went to pour it for him.

Given past events, I would of course have advised against inviting Mr. Wooster. Unfortunately, his lordship's tact prevented his speaking the name in my presence. Thus it was that in secret, with scarcely a quarter hour to spare, he sent young Master Seabury on foot to fetch him. (Mr. Wooster's old-world, sequestered cottage lacked a telephone line.)

I became aware of the additional guest only when I heard Mr. Stoker in the foyer.

"Hard to be believe a square fellow like you could be friends with that Wooster."

Lord Chuffnell gave a nervous laugh. "Ah, well, he's just biffing off now. Turns out he can't stay for lunch after all."

"Good, because if I see him near Pauline, I'll-- Now where has that girl gone?"

Mr. Wooster and Miss Stoker are both young, innocent, and warm-hearted. I thought it best to separate them before questions arose.

As expected, I found them on a bench in the garden, looking deceptively like young lovers. Miss Stoker was as lovely as ever. Mr. Wooster looked well, despite a dubious choice of jacket. At my interruption he glanced up in annoyance.

Then he gazed at me in rapture. I would have sacrificed a good deal--money, flattery, success, certain minor works of Shakespeare--not to see Mr. Wooster's face at that moment.

"Jeeves!" he cried. "You've come back!"

There is a protective pride that every servant takes in his master, one that lingers even when professional ties are severed, which shudders to see him humiliate himself. One might hope it is not entirely pride. I can only say that I found Mr. Wooster's ill-timed and imperceptive babbling on this occasion far more difficult to bear than anything else he has said in my presence, and he has said many ill-timed, imperceptive things. "Well, Jeeves, you acted rashly, but I shan't hold it against you," he assured me. "The new man Brinkley is not entirely satisfactory."

I managed to correct Mr. Wooster's mistake, after a fashion, although I could not quite meet his eyes. And I refrained from brushing a loose thread from his lapel.

The information was some time sinking in.

"You're working for Chuffy."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Wooster took it well. His face went briefly blank, the way it does when a friend or aunt informs him that he has bungled a situation beyond repair and is no longer welcome in the vicinity or indeed the country. Then he pulled himself together and glowered at me. He has a glower better suited for conveying bewilderment than anger, but even so, it was with some surprise that I perceived that he was not angry now.

Miss Stoker, finding herself forgotten, had the tact to excuse herself back to the house. Mr. Wooster remained hovering at my side. He appeared to search his limited resources for something to say.

"Well! I mean to say, we meet again, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir. I gather you do not plan to attend luncheon?"

"Oh, I intend to give luncheon a wide berth. Stoker's feelings toward young Bertram have not noticeably softened with the crossing of the Atlantic. You remember, of course, his choice words regarding my engagement to Pauline?"

"I do recall his vehement objection to the alliance, sir."

"Vehement? Positively frothing at the mouth, Jeeves."

"Perhaps a touch of the hydrophobic, sir."

"How that man begat such a pippin of a girl is beyond me. Pauline, don't you know. Why, she's even prettier now than when I was ass enough to propose." Here Mr. Wooster looked to me for a reaction, as though I were a friend from one of his gentlemen's clubs. The change in our relative positions had evidently disoriented him.

"Indeed, sir. 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness, but still will keep a bower quiet for us.'"

"Keep the bally thing quiet? I shouldn't think bowers were known for making excessive noise."

"No, sir."

"I mean, if one were rounding up the garden fixtures most likely to disturb the peace, I suppose fountains might make the list, and rusty gates, and the odd soppy beazel lisping good night to the buttercups, but bowers never."

"Possibly not, sir. However, the poet Keats--" I paused, expecting a sigh and an interruption.

Neither arrived. Instead I surprised what might charitably be called a wistful expression on Mr. Wooster's face. His chin tilted up in my direction. A crease crossed his brow. His mouth hung open in the manner that drives his aunts to distraction. His very blue eyes fixed upon mine, and a disinterested observer might have described them as homesick. I cannot say why, but the sight disturbed me so profoundly that for perhaps the first time in my professional life, I broke off involuntarily in mid-sentence.

I cleared my throat. "The poet Keats said that beauty 'will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.' His exact motives for saying so elude me at present. Do you plan to return home now, sir?" I found myself hoping he would.

Mr. Wooster hesitated, mouth still open, gazing into the distance. "Well, actually--I was rather hoping to bend Chuffy's ear a moment. Perhaps after lunch I can find him some distance from old Stoker, what?"

"His lordship will be constantly in Mr. Stoker's company, sir, in order to discuss the sale of the Hall."

"Don't make me laugh. No man alive could stand to be in Stoker's company constantly. When the poor chap starts longing for a reprieve, you can send him to me. I'll be here in the garden."

"Very good, sir. Shall I bring you a tray of sandwiches?"

"Oh, thank you, Jeeves, but I'm not hungry. Late breakfast, don't you know."

I endeavoured not to imagine how tardily breakfast would have to be served in order to dampen Mr. Wooster's midday appetite.

"I may take a constitutional instead." He took a few experimental steps in the direction of the garden path, as a dog does when hoping to persuade its master to follow. "Spare a minute, Jeeves?"

Few men could bear to disappoint Mr. Wooster twice in one day. I fell in beside him. Silence reigned until Mr. Wooster broached the obvious, the natural, the perennial subject between us, and he seemed to forget that I had ever left his side.


	3. Chapter 3

What I meant to say to Mr. Wooster was this: "For a penniless, scrupulous young man such as Lord Chuffnell to propose to a wealthy young lady, he must lay down his most treasured possession, his pride; or rather, he must treasure his love more. Such maturity comes with time," I might have added, "time and self-confidence."

It would have done no good. Mr. Wooster, alas, lacks patience for the slower processes of psychology. In the space of a minute he had formed a clever but rash scheme to bring the lovers together. Far from requesting my assistance, he had simply ordered it.

In speaking of the art of persuasion, I failed to mention the persuasive powers of artlessness. When Mr. Wooster walked away, the stray thread still clinging to his lapel, I had consented to his plan, quite against my better judgment. Miss Stoker would meet him in the garden. Shortly afterward, Lord Chuffnell would arrive and see them together. An ugly shock for his lordship, but perhaps the very impetus he needed.

Therefore, at the appointed time, I informed his lordship that Miss Stoker wished to speak with him. Mr. Stoker, however, insisted on going to see her himself.

I would have stopped him, but I was distracted by the baffled radiance of Lord Chuffnell's face. For once the young baron did not leap at the chance to see Miss Stoker. With Mr. Stoker gone, he spoke.

"Jeeves!"

"My lord?"

"He's going to buy the Hall!"

"Indeed, my lord? This is excellent news."

"It's all but official. I could just about kiss the old blighter! I thought he'd never come round. By the way, why did Pauline want to see me, Jeeves?"

"I could not say, my lord."

"Well, I'll speak with her soon enough. In fact, I dare say the first words out of my mouth shall be 'Will you marry me?'"

"Let me be the first to offer my congratulations, my lord." I foresaw that I would be giving notice within the year. Nature's bridegrooms are many, her bachelors few.

The sale of the Hall remained all but official for one hour, as we visited the Stokers' yacht. Then Lord Chuffnell's nephew and Mr. Stoker's son assaulted one another, as small boys are wont to do, Mrs. Pongleton joined the fray, Lord Chuffnell's warm temper asserted itself, and the two families were at war.


	4. Chapter 4

"Get out, the lot of you!" Mr. Stoker bellowed, quite unnecessarily. The Chuffnell family was retreating all too gladly to the safety of the rowboat, attended by a rather bored-looking boatman. "And if I ever see your faces again, I'll--! Oh. Jeeves."  
  
"Good afternoon, sir." I was the last to leave the yacht, having stopped to retrieve his lordship's hat. In his fury and haste, he had neglected to take it with him.  
  
"No, wait--I'd like a word with you." He turned to his daughter, who had her arm around young Master Dwight. The boy was snivelling quietly but wore a smirk of triumph. "Go get yourself washed up, young man. Pauline, you go too."  
  
"But Daddy--"  
  
"And neither one of you will set foot off this boat until I say so!" To his daughter he added: "You're not going to go and get kissed by that imbecile friend of yours again, young lady."  
  
His lordship, seated in the rowboat, made a strangled choking sound, and his flush deepened.  
  
"Daddy!" Pauline cried in embarrassment.  
  
"I said go!" he barked. "Now, Jeeves?" He ushered me inside, out of hearing range of the rowboat.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Jeeves, this country is full of complete and utter lunatics. I think you may be the one sane Brit I've ever met."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"Oh, it's well deserved, Jeeves. Let's get down to brass tacks. How much is that damned Chuffnell paying you?"  
  
"I regret, sir, that I am not at liberty--"  
  
"Of course not. But I think we both know he's flat broke without a buyer for the Hall. What would you say to looking after a good old down-to-earth American businessman? No more of these barons and earls and so forth."  
  
"Thank you for this most generous offer, sir."  
  
"I don't mind telling you," and here Mr. Stoker's voice dropped conspiratorially, "I'd pay quite a bit right now for the sake of putting one over on that Chuffnell rascal."  
  
"Indeed, sir?"  
  
"I mean, I'm happy enough to leave him in that worthless shack of his. Let him rot there! But to walk off with his most valued servant...Well. That would be pure gravy, now, wouldn't it?"  
  
"I take your meaning, sir."  
  
"You like boating, Jeeves?"  
  
"I have always been fond of nautical activities, sir, particularly fishing and netting shrimp. I have long wished to visit the West Indies." Mr. Wooster, I felt, had an irrational antipathy for Caribbean cruises.  
  
"Sounds like the perfect spot for my next vacation. Now, what would you say to a wage of, say ..."  
  
The sum he named was almost indelicately high. Even as I disapproved of Mr. Stoker's methods, I admired his audacity. For a moment I contemplated taking in the Greater Antilles in the company of a gentleman who would attempt such a ploy. Intelligence is not desirable in an employer; money and generosity always are.  
  
"You are very kind, sir."  
  
"Not the impulsive sort, are you, Jeeves? I like that. I respect that. All right, think it over. But listen, if you do choose the better man, you have only to row out to the good old _Queen_. We'll be moored here for the next week. And you'll be welcome aboard any time of day or night, Jeeves."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
I rejoined the party. His lordship was seething quietly. Her ladyship was sobbing quietly. Master Seabury was sulking quietly. The boatman avoided looking any of us in the eye.  
  
When we were some distance from the yacht Lord Chuffnell hissed under his breath, "The gall of that man! I'm going to scoop out his insides if it's the last thing I do!"  
  
Since the others present seemed reluctant to respond to this statement, I cleared my throat. "An understandable sentiment, my lord, though perhaps a rash thing to say of one's future father-in-law."  
  
"Future father-in-law! Pah! I'm talking about Bertie W. Wooster!"  
  
It is the duty of a gentleman's personal gentleman to judge when his master requires a listening ear and a guiding hand, and when he needs peace and solitude. This, I felt, was one of the latter times.  
  
Accordingly, I handed his lordship his hat and assisted the family's disembarkment without a word. Once ashore, I followed at a discreet distance. It was not my intention, I must emphasize, to linger by the seaside and recount the tale of woe to Mr. Wooster. Circumstances simply permitted it.  
  
Returning to the Hall some time later, I was disturbed to hear a loud yell and thump from the staircase.  
  
"My lord?"  
  
Lord Chuffnell uttered a few words in response.  
  
I found his lordship lying on his back at the foot of the stairs. He rose and picked up a sheet of greasy brown paper from the floor. He stared at it. Then he raised it to his nose and sniffed.  
  
"Butter," he said through gritted teeth.  
  
"It worked!" shouted Master Seabury from the landing. His face glowed with boyish delight.  
  
His lordship turned on his heel. "Can somebody tell me," he asked, teeth still gritted, "why there was a buttered sheet of paper lying on the stairs?"  
  
The boy's mother appeared on the landing beside him. "Oh, dear!" she gasped. "I'm certain he didn't mean any harm. He sees these things in the pictures and--"  
  
I believe it was a moment of catharsis for Lord Chuffnell. He expressed his opinion of Master Seabury, his practical pleasantries, and the motion pictures in no uncertain terms. He stated a wish to wring the young man's neck and toss him into the sea. The warmth and vividness of his castigation made his earlier outbursts look like fond scoldings.  
  
"And if I hear there is so much as one more drop of butter missing from the kitchen," he concluded at high volume, "I'll flay you alive!"  
  
Mother and son retreated.  
  
This done, his lordship calmed himself slightly. He crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and pitched it into the nearest wastebasket.  
  
"Jeeves," he said in grim tones, "about Bertie Wooster."  
  
"Yes, my lord?"  
  
"I wouldn't normally discuss him with you, Jeeves, but whatever quarrel you had with the man, it couldn't be worse than this."  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
"Nothing can shock me now. Were you to tell me he keeps handkerchiefs with scarlet horseshoes embroidered on them, or--or picks his teeth with a letter knife, I could not despise him more."  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
"How could he betray me on these very grounds?" he went on, apparently rhetorically. "How could he kiss Pauline? How could Pauline let him? Oh, God, is there any such thing in this world as true love?"  
  
"It is said, my lord, that it is only on such occasions as this that love may be tested and proven true. A gentleman of noble heart waits to hear his lady's story before accusing her of wrongdoing."  
  
"Talk to her, you mean? But how can I? Her father's got her locked up on that boat of his, damn him." His lordship paced the floor. "It's all very well to be noble-hearted, but I've got my pride, Jeeves!"  
  
"If I may take the very great liberty of saying so, my lord, love often demands the sacrifice of pride."  
  
"Tchah!"  
  
"As you say, my lord."  
  
His lordship halted in his steps and looked at me. "What do you mean, sacrifice?"  
  
"If your lordship were to convey to Miss Stoker your sentiments of steadfast love and trust, she might be more inclined to candour when you ask about her behaviour with Mr. Wooster. No doubt she would explain the matter and accept your proposal."  
  
"Proposal! By Heaven!" His lordship fell into a chair and buried his head in his hands. "How can I marry her now? I'm broke, Jeeves. Broke, and she's the daughter of a millionaire."  
  
"Love is love, my lord, regardless of social status."  
  
He was silent. After a few moments he raised his head. "You really think she might say yes?"  
  
"I suspect so, my lord."  
  
"It would be worth it, then, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Perhaps, my lord."  
  
"I'd do anything for her, you know. Even make an ass of myself, as I'm bound to do. Even kowtow to her dratted father." He reflected. "Why, I think I would live by the sweat of my brow if that's what it took to be worthy of her!"  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
"I'd get a job, by gum! I'd slave away in honest toil. Is that what they call it? Toil?"  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
"I'd dress in rags and patches for the rest of my days!"  
  
"My lord?"  
  
"Only an expression, Jeeves." His eyes, however, were dreamy and distant. It was clear the romance of poverty already held him in thrall. "Anyhow, I'll do it. As soon as I can arrange some way of meeting with her, I shall lay myself at her mercy. And then," he added, rising to pace the floor once more, "I'll break the spine of that benighted snake in the grass! Does he think he can go about kissing any woman he likes?"  
  
"Very good, my lord." I thought it wise to change the subject. "Incidentally, regarding Miss Stoker's father, I believe we hold better cards than your lordship is aware..."


	5. Chapter 5

His lordship was out for several hours. When he returned, he was whistling a jaunty tune, and there was a spring in his step. I inferred that no insides had been scooped out.  
  
"Jeeves, Bertie's just given me a spiffing idea!"  
  
"You have spoken with Mr. Wooster, my lord?"  
  
"I have. You know, Jeeves, I may have been wrong about that fellow."  
  
"I am glad to hear you are reconciled, my lord."  
  
"I shall write to Pauline. You say Stoker is prepared to welcome you with open arms? Then you shall go to him and take my letter with you."  
  
"I will endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord."  
  
"I can't say I've ever written a love letter before. Makes a chap a bit nervous. Do you know anything of the procedure, Jeeves?"  
  
"It is an ancient and noble art, my lord. The poet Browning--"  
  
"I mean to say, could you perhaps just jot down a few things--the sort of rot one generally bungs in--birds and bees and whatnot?"  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
The billet-doux was a pleasure to write, though I worked within certain constraints of believability. After some thought I confined myself to familiar flora and fauna, golden sunsets, cozy cottages, and Miss Stoker's own considerable charms. I emphasized the urgency with which his lordship wished to see her. I spoke of the agony lovers suffer when divided by even a single night--even a mere ribbon of sea. I composed a lengthy paragraph on the brilliance of Miss Stoker's blue eyes, pleading for them to be brought out by some silky garment of violet or better still heliotrope, which I--or rather, his lordship--longed to procure for her at the earliest possible date.  
  
His lordship copied these sentiments down with apparent satisfaction, though he confessed to a few editorial changes. (I took the liberty of reading and resealing the letter before I delivered it. The alterations were not disastrous.)  
  
"...and I hope you will be very happy," said Lord Chuffnell cheerfully, "in your new employment."  
  
"Thank you, my lord."  
  
I confess to feeling some slight chagrin at this juncture. One master had dismissed me in a moment of childish pique. The next, having used me as both adviser and bargaining chip, sent me away without hesitation. I was glad to have given satisfaction, but I was weary of being valued for my utility alone. I did not look forward to my new employment.  
  
Mr. Stoker's daughter, on the other hand, attracted me very much. I have always taken advantage of the latitude afforded to a gentleman's personal gentleman. Into Miss Stoker's private bedroom, where no young man of her class could have set foot unchaperoned, I was able to enter discreetly with a bottle of his lordship's best champagne. I found her reading my handiwork with a glow of rapture.  
  
"It's a perfectly wonderful letter! I didn't know Marmaduke had it in him."  
  
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, miss." Cyrano may never get his kiss, but he receives certain other compensations. The light of love in Miss Stoker's eyes stirred my heart. It reminded me of what I myself would likely never have.  
  
Despite the copious hints in the letter, the young lady was quite unable to think of any means of arranging a rendez-vous. Her sparkling eyes held love and hope and heartache but scarcely a gleam of intelligence. This helplessness, too, strangely warmed me.  
  
"If I might make a suggestion..."


	6. Chapter 6

Mr. J. Washburn Stoker, as I have said, is not a man of intellect. Whereas he took no notice of my brief tête-à-tête with his daughter, he bristled at the name of a man more innocent than I, alas, shall ever be.

"Wooster--of course! I knew it!"

"Perhaps we should go ashore to search for them, sir."

"Good idea, Jeeves! Come on..."

The conflagration at the cottage surprised me somewhat. I had thought Mr. Wooster was getting by tolerably well in my absence.

Nor had I counted on Lord Chuffnell's arrival, or his reaction on seeing Miss Stoker.

"You swine!" he cried, and struck Mr. Wooster. Mr. Stoker expressed much the same sentiment, with even greater violence. I winced at the display.

Fortunately, Lord Chuffnell quickly turned his attention to the rescue of Miss Stoker, who was trapped in the second storey bedroom.

Despite her recent ordeal, Miss Stoker was scintillating in Mr. Wooster's heliotrope pyjamas. That aspect of my scheme had gone without a hitch. I have never approved of violet-hued clothing for gentlemen, and loose silk is a poor choice for the slight-bodied male figure. A light steel blue or periwinkle would be better suited to Mr. Wooster, with piping to accent his slenderness and height.

"I blame you for this, Jeeves," said Mr. Wooster without rancour. He sat heavily beside me, nursing his head.

As I say, pride is my weakness. I have accomplished some considerable feats in my time, often requiring utmost secrecy, and yet only very rarely indeed have I ever managed to resist recounting the steps of my plans to some audience or another. I could no more have kept silent than I could have forgotten the heliotrope pyjamas. But I had only outlined the general plot for Mr. Wooster's benefit when we were interrupted by the hearty thanks and apologies and good wishes being exchanged by the two men before us.

"I was wrong about you, Chuffnell."

"No, no, the fault was all mine."

"My little girl is alive thanks to you."

"Please, don't mention it."

"Lord Chuffnell, I have treated you in the worst possible manner, and I hope I'm man enough to face up to it. To begin with, I stole your valet from right under your nose."

"What! Jeeves?"

"Yes, you didn't suspect anything, I know, but I'm sure you wondered why he up and left you so suddenly. I was the one that talked him into quitting. I lured him away with money and talk of travel. I played on his human weakness, Chuffnell. It was a low thing to do, and I know it."

"Water under the bridge," said his lordship, his face brightening as comprehension dawned. Mr. Stoker's remorse placed him in a position of added leverage.

"Well, I'm setting things right, here and now. Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"Jeeves, it pains me to do it, but I'm letting you go. I'm giving you leave to go back to work for Lord Chuffnell."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly--" began his lordship.

"No, I insist!"

"Well, well, well!" said his lordship.

"You deserve a good man like Jeeves," said Mr. Stoker, shaking his lordship's hand for the fifth or sixth time. "I see that now."

"Well! What a boon! Eh, Jeeves?"

"Very good, sir; very good, my lord."

And the two gentlemen shook hands and patted each other's backs vigorously for several minutes on end. Mr. Wooster, forgotten, looked on in mild disgust. I took the opportunity to soak my handkerchief in well water and apply it to his contused eye.


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Chuffnell rises at the perfectly respectable hour of nine o'clock and takes his breakfast at the table with a cup of Ceylon. Morning generally finds his lordship in fine spirits, and on this particular day he had reason to be.  
  
The night had ended well. Mr. Stoker had agreed to meet him at noon to resume their friendship and their negotiations. As for Miss Stoker, their re-engagement was all but official. Yet his lordship's manner was moody and subdued.  
  
"Where's the creamer?" he asked as I handed him his tea.  
  
"There is no cream today, my lord. The cook informs me that this morning's delivery was stolen."  
  
"Stolen!"  
  
"Yes, my lord. Our best cocktail shaker has also gone missing. It would perhaps be pertinent to mention that yesterday afternoon, after your lordship forbade Master Seabury to take any more butter from the kitchen, the young gentleman asked Lady Chuffnell to tell him how butter is made. She replied--"  
  
"Yes, all right, I see the nub of it, Jeeves." His lordship sighed and rubbed his temple. "All I need is for Stoker to set foot on one of those blasted booby traps. I had better send the boy out for the day. Let him go see a puppet show or something."  
  
"Very wise, my lord."  
  
"Jeeves," he said, setting down his cup untouched, "I've been thinking. Last night, before the fire, Bertie was sleeping in his potting shed. In full evening dress, at that."  
  
"Indeed, my lord?"  
  
"Odd, isn't it? Even if he was tight?"  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
"But it's beginning to make sense to me. Pauline wasn't there for a tryst--she only needed a place to stop for the night so she could see me. And Bertie's dashed sense of propriety packed him off to the shed."  
  
"The conjecture seems a plausible one, my lord."  
  
"Never mind it was a damn fool place to sleep. Never mind it was full of cobwebs and probably gave him a crick in the neck. He simply thought it the right thing to do."  
  
"Indeed, my lord."  
  
Lord Chuffnell took a creamless sip of tea. "I called him some rather harsh names last night, didn't I."  
  
"A swine and a ruffian, my lord, if I recall correctly."  
  
"And gave him quite a cuff."  
  
"An admirable right cross, my lord."  
  
"Old man Stoker got in a few good ones too."  
  
"Your lordship and Mr. Stoker were both unstinting in your blows. I suspect it was one of the factors that made your reconciliation possible. By joining forces in your spirited attack on Mr. Wooster--"  
  
"Blast it, Jeeves!" cried Lord Chuffnell. "He's probably asleep in that potting shed this very minute."  
  
"Very likely, my lord."  
  
"And here I call myself a man of scruple. What a bloody fool I am. How can I ever make it up to him?"  
  
I cleared my throat. "If I might make a suggestion..."  
  
"Yes, Jeeves?"  
  
"Perhaps, my lord, we might employ the same method that Mr. Stoker used last night to tender his apologies and gratitude to your lordship, and that you yourself used earlier to convey a love letter."  
  
The young baron blinked. I endeavoured to elucidate.  
  
"If I were to go to Mr. Wooster and offer to resume my former position in his employ, I could take the opportunity to give him a missive from your lordship. No doubt he would assume that you had sent me, his former servant, as a peace offering. He would thus be inclined to receive your apology more favourably."  
  
"That's it, Jeeves! The very ticket!" His lordship rose to his feet in excitement. "But are you really willing to do it? You don't mind going back to old Bertie?"  
  
I paused, adopting an air of grave consideration. "I believe we may be able to set aside our differences, my lord."  
  
"He's really not a bad chap, Jeeves."  
  
"No, my lord."  
  
"A man couldn't ask for a better friend."  
  
"Why, no, my lord."  
  
"A bit daft, it's true, but a dear, loyal, generous, chivalrous fellow to the end."  
  
"He has a heart of gold, my lord."  
  
"I'll dash off that letter this instant." His lordship hesitated. "Though come to think of it I've never really written a letter of apology before. Do you think you might ...?"  
  
"Well, my lord--"  
  
"Oh, come now! I'll take any suggestions you have this time, Jeeves, no matter how soppy. That's a promise!"  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
His lordship rose to his feet. "An apology ought to have a certain amount of soppiness, after all. That's how you know a fellow's sincere."  
  
"Very true, my lord."  
  
Within ten minutes the letter was signed, sealed, and tucked in my breast pocket. His lordship stood and gazed at me thoughtfully. "You're certain it's all right, Jeeves? You think you can--well--make amends?"  
  
"I believe so, my lord."  
  
To my surprise, Lord Chuffnell extended a hand--something he had not done at our last parting. We shook in the manner of social equals. "If there's anything else I can do for you before you go, you've only to say the word."  
  
"There is one small thing, my lord, if I might trouble you."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"A box of Darjeeling tea."


	8. Chapter 8

The cottage was in a more advanced state of collapse than I expected. But although the stove was buried in debris and the china ruined, a set of rustic tin dishware survived intact.  
  
So did the trombone I retrieved from the remains of the living room. Beneath a layer of soot, the coiled brass serpent showed scarcely a dent or a scratch. This would not do. I carried the lamentable instrument to the edge of the nearest farmer's field and propped it between the fencepost and the gate. The application of a sturdy length of board produced satisfactory results.  
  
A lone cow observed my work and lowed a good morning.  
  
When I brought the accursed trombone back to the cottage, there came from the potting shed that drowsy bleat that signalled Mr. Wooster's entry into the lighter stages of sleep. Despite his fits of caprice, Mr. Wooster is in many ways as reliable as the watch in my waistcoat. For the next twenty minutes a slight stirring would intrude on his "sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing." Then he would awake, groggy and bruised but in good spirits. His first thought would be that his friends were happy.  
  
Mindful of the time, I built a small cooking fire and brewed a cup of tea--one cup only, quite strong, no sugar. By luck, my friend the cow was able to provide a dash of cream.  
  
As I strained the fragrant leaves I mused over my latest change of employment. I had no cause to doubt my position with regard to Mr. Wooster. He had had more than his fill of the countryside. He would find the loss of his trombone far easier than admitting that he could not play. He missed me. His pre-breakfast state of mind would make him highly susceptible to suggestion. In short, reason assured me that my return home to London would cost me not the least sacrifice, nor the least apology, nor an iota of soppiness. I need only deliver a letter signed with another man's name.  
  
Conscience, however, demurred. Mr. Wooster, inept negotiator that he was, had shown me far more of his heart than was necessary. I owed him a few simple words in return. And yet I did not feel myself capable of saying them aloud until I opened the potting shed door and saw the faint smile on my young gentleman's sleeping face.


End file.
